


as a hello

by rizcriz



Series: the i love you collection [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Resurrection, damn it, dont read the tags theyll spoil it for you, fuck i just realized the title is also a spoiler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 09:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: “El . . .” Margo says from behind him. She’s being cautious, which is fair, because he’s holding a coin over the most powerful magic in all of Fillory, ready to make his wish. “Just—remember. That these things never turn out how you expect.”He knows. His thumb brushes over the face of the coin, his eyes fluttering shut. ‘Be careful,’ the questing dog had said, ‘for the wishing fountain grants the wish in the way it so chooses.’ Not like the winters doe—who’s gone missing—but with a twist. Sometimes it grants what’s beyond the words, resting on the veins of the wishers heart. Sometimes it senses evil, and grants the opposite if not worded precisely. It’d been the only reason Martin Chatwin stayed away. One wrong word, and Eliot could blow up the entire universe and every living thing that inhabits it.So, of course, the entire trek up he’d thought about his wording. Simple. As few words as possible, but clear enough. Precise. No room for the fountain to take it the wrong way. Made sure to keep all his feelings about Quentin’s death bubbling up on the surface so the fountain can’t even think that his heart isn’t in it when he makes the wish.--Or Eliot gets a wish.





	as a hello

**Author's Note:**

> Er, I tried to be sneaky but i'm not muhc a sneaky person. Also, whoops this was written in three hours and unedited because lol its 5am and I've been writing for six hours. Anyways, I just posted one another fic which is a little less angsty if you don't wanna cry.
> 
> Kay. Enjoy. (?)

“El . . .” Margo says from behind him. She’s being cautious, which is fair, because he’s holding a coin over the most powerful magic in all of Fillory, ready to make his wish. “Just—remember. That these things never turn out how you expect.”

He knows. His thumb brushes over the face of the coin, his eyes fluttering shut. ‘ _Be careful,_ ’ the questing dog had said, ‘ _for the wishing fountain grants the wish in the way it so chooses.’_ Not like the winters doe—who’s gone missing—but with a _twist_. Sometimes it grants what’s beyond the words, resting on the veins of the wishers heart. Sometimes it senses evil, and grants the opposite if not worded precisely. It’d been the only reason Martin Chatwin stayed away. One wrong word, and Eliot could blow up the entire universe and every living thing that inhabits it.

So, of course, the entire trek up he’d thought about his wording. Simple. As few words as possible, but clear enough. Precise. No room for the fountain to take it the wrong way. Made sure to keep all his feelings about Quentin’s death bubbling up on the surface so the fountain can’t even think that his heart isn’t in it when he makes the wish.

Truth be told, Margo and Julia had spent the entire quest sharing side eyed glances as the tears quietly slipped over his cheeks. He’s sure they’ve wanted to tell him to turn back a dozen or more times. But _they_ got to say goodbye. _They_ got _closure_.

And they hadn’t even lived an entire lifetime with him. So who were they to try and stop him? At least—that’s why he figures they’re standing behind him now. Letting him do this. Even though, in his grief, he could end everything. Maybe even his own life. God, the fountain could take it too literally, and kill him. Send him down to the underworld, so he doesn’t really have to say goodbye.

Because he may think of goodbye, but his heart’s screaming closure. His hearts screaming to be reunited.

And—as much as he wants it. To be with Quentin again—he can’t do that to Margo. Or Julia, for that matter. He can’t say goodbye to _them_ , because then who would they have? He might not be close to Julia, not like Quentin was, but the least he can do—for Quentin—is be there for her. After all, he’s only alive because Quentin saved him. God, the fountain might even grant the secret part of his heart that wishes it could bring him back to life just so he can kill him again for sacrificing himself. Which would be a mistake on it’s part, because he wouldn’t be able to do it, not really.

He takes in a deep breath, lets the edge of his fingernail scrape against the side of the coin.

He’s—

He’s not sure he can do this.

A warm, small hand settles on his shoulder, gentle and kind, and he feels Julia lean in. “Just breathe. Whatever you wish for—it’ll be pure of heart. The fountain will know that.”

“Will it?” He can’t help that it comes out as barely more than a breath, because he’s not sure he’s pure of heart anymore. Not after all the monster did with his body. Not after the very hand that’s holding the coin now ended Quentin’s life. Not after, not after, not after.

Maybe _before._

But, not after. Not _now._

How could he possibly be sure?

How could _she?_

Her best friend _died for him._ And she never even knew _why._ Not really.

Another hand falls on his other shoulder. “This is your chance,” Margo says, from just behind him. “I know we’re all scared that you’ll fuck it up. But let’s be real, El.” He glances over his shoulder to look at her, and her gaze is soft, where it’s staring at the coin in his hands. “One thing this dumb ass fountain has to know is that you love Quentin. And that you deserve a chance to say goodbye.” Her eyes flick over to his face, rake over the set of his jaw, before locking her gaze on his. “Just think about how much you love him. And how little you want the rest of us to die.” The corner of her mouth twitches.

A little spike of gratefulness stabs at his heart and he nods, swallowing thickly as he turns his gaze back on the coin above the fountain.

They let go of him and take a step back, then another, and one more to be safe. And then he’s left with his thoughts, a magical coin, and a fountain that could very well want him dead.

“Here goes nothing,” He mutters, before flipping the coin so it’s settled overtop his thumb. He closes his eyes, inhales, once, twice, three times, and then flicks his thumb. There’s a soft ting where it hits the base of the coin and it lifts off into the air. He opens his eyes, watches as it spins, glinting in the sun, dances in mid air above the fountain. And then it stops, for a half a moment, before dropping and falling. Falling, falling, falling.

_Splash._

His breath hitches, his hands falling to the sides of the fountain.

He expects an explosion, or for a burst of magic to bring forth Quentin’s ghost. _Something._

But there’s _nothing_.

He closes his eyes, clenching his jaw as he grabs onto the fountain, white knuckled and frustrated. A hoarse, angry scream threatens at the back of his throat. He wants to punch, scream, flail—whatever. _Anything_. Because god damn it, this should have been _it_. This should have been his chance to say goodbye. To—to close the book and say goodbye to all this pain filling him up. To be done with all the things he never got to say. All the love he never got to share. The happiness that he never got have.

 _This_ was supposed to be it.

And this _fucking_ fountain. This _piece of shit_ useless, magicless _garbage_ —

There’s a soft gasp behind him.

“ _El_.”

His chin trembles, and he shakes his head. _He can’t_. He can’t turn around and face their pity. He fucking _can’t_.

Because he _should have_ wished for the end of the world. Maybe the fountain would have granted _that_. Maybe it would have given in, and sucked out all the pain of the entire universe. Maybe it just decided _he_ wasn’t worth a little magic. Maybe his pain isn’t strong enough. Maybe he’s done too many terrible things to deserve whatever the fountain has to offer.

Pure of fucking heart, he is not. _Clearly_.

Tears sting at his eyes, but he refuses to open them and let the tears run free. He’s been hiking for three days, and he’s let them all run rampant. Let his heart ache in his chest. Let the fucking pain _consume_ him. He can’t anymore. He just.

 _Can’t_.

“Eliot.”

Her voice is stern. Usually it’d be enough to make him turn around, but he just shakes his head again. It’s been weeks. All he’s wanted—all that’s kept him standing on his fucking feet was getting here. Getting to this god damned fountain and wishing. Wishing for Quentin, wishing for him back, wishing for a goodbye. Getting the wording right, getting the moment right. Knowing what to say when the opportunity finally came. It’s been months in progress. Finding the coin, finding the map to the fountain, finding the fountain—it should have lead to _something_.

It should have lead to _Quentin_.

He spine trembles with the sobs aching to be set free. A hand settles at the base of his spine, warm and large and imposing. It’s shaking, too.

He wants to shake it free. Wants to push away from the familiar warmth. Wants to tell Margo or Julia to just give him a minute, or a cocktail—or both. But another hand comes up, slides across his shoulder, over his chest, and up to his neck. Large and warm and so, so familiar, as it cups the side of his jaw. Forces him to turn his head to the side to face them. Too large to be Julia. Too large to be Margo.

“Open your eyes.”

Too deep to—

The world flickers to life as he blinks, shutters the tears away. His lower lip trembles and a familiar head of moppy brown hair takes up the center of his universe. Soft brown eyes and a familiar nose and downturned lips. He inhales shakily, turning into him fully, leaning into the warmth of his touch on his jaw. A dirty, broken sound forces itself out of his chest, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s rushing in and throwing his arms around him.

His sobs shake them. Shake the whole world around them.

Quentin’s arms slowly come around, hold him. The hand at his jaw moves around to cup the back of his head, as the one at his waist wraps around Eliot’s back, steadying him. Uniting them. Eliot buries his face in Quentin’s hair, breaths him in. His stupid, cheap shampoo and conditioner; stupid soft long locks.

“Oh god,” Eliot groans, sobs breaking and disappearing in Quentin’s hair. He’d missed it. All of it. The coarse feel of the cotton of Quentin’s shirt, the rippling muscles dancing beneath it. The awful shampoo, the too soft hair— _god_ , all of it.

Quentin laughs, though it’s just as watery, as he pets Eliot’s hair, pulling him in closer. “Shh,” He hushes, “It’s okay, Eliot. _It’s okay.”_

And it is. But it’s not. All of it and everything in between.

Eliot pulls away, swallowing, all loud and wet and gross, but he couldn’t care less if he tried, because he’s here, he’s here, _he’s here._ It _worked._ The piece of shit fountain actually did as promised. He unravels himself from around Quentin, reaches up to cup his cheeks with both hands. “Oh god,” He repeats, the words thick and stormy. “You’re here. It worked.”

Quentin nods jerkily. “I’m here. I—I don’t. Know how. What—“

Eliot shakes his head, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Quentin’s forehead. “I don’t think. We have time to get into the specifics, Q,” He murmurs, though it’s _so_ Quentin. So, insanely him to be more focused on the details and the semantics of being brought to life for a few moments, than the fact that he’s here. Too lost in the details to enjoy the few moments they have together.

God, Eliot doesn’t even know _how long he has._

Quentin tilts his head. “What are you talking about?” He asks, his hand sliding from the back of Eliot’s neck to swipe at a tear attempting to flee.

“You’re dead—“ Eliot pauses, because even with him here, just saying it, admitting it, it’s still too much. Too much too fast. All at once, and not at all. 

Quentin nods. “I was.”

Eliot swallows again, unsure. Unsure of _so much._ God, had the fountain really brought them together and left Quentin without a clue? No way of knowing that he was back, but just long enough for Eliot to say goodbye? Was it really so cruel? Should he even be so surprised that it is? “No—you. Q, I wished—“ His eyebrows furrow painfully, and leans in, hand still cupping Quentin’s cheeks—leans down and in, presses his forehead to Quentins. “I wished for a chance to say _goodbye._ ”

Does the spell end only when he says it?

He swallows down a lump, closes his eyes, and waits. Waits for something to happen. An answer, maybe.

It’s a long moment before he gets one. But when he does, it’s Quentin’s arm sliding out from behind Eliot’s back, and reaching up, grasping at Eliot’s wrist. “El,” He says, and it’s barely more than a whisper, hoarse and choked off. Just as fueled as everything Eliot’s feeling. Too much, not enough, too much, not enough. “El,” He repeats, louder, though no less hoarse, “I heard your wish—it was. Like. It was in—in my head? You—you didn’t wish to say _goodbye._ ”

“Yes, I did.”

He _had._

Closure. A goodbye. A chance to start over.

“You wished for a chance to start over,” Quentin echoes his thoughts almost perfectly. “I don’t think—think you heart was. In for a goodbye.”

Eliot pulls away. Looks down at him.

“No,” He says, shaking his head. His hands drop down, just far enough to rest at the base of Quentin’s neck, right above his collar bones. “No,” He repeats. “I don’t—I don’t get to—you’re not suggesting that I get to—“

“ _Keep him,_ ” Julia says from behind them, sort of breathless. “I think those are the words you’re looking for.”

He barely hears Margo slapping Julia, but he doesn’t care, too focused. Too focused. To fucking focused.

He furrows his brow, clenches his jaw. “She’s wrong, right?” He asks. Too scared to hope. He doesn’t get this. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t—

Quentin shakes his head. It’s barely even a breath of a movement.

But his eyes are bright, and Eliot can’t tell if he’s going to cry or _laugh,_ but he curls his lips in, shakes his head a little harder. “She’s not wrong,” He breathes, just shy of being choked off. “I—I don’t think she is, at least?” He smiles up at him, all shiny eyes and flushed cheeks. “After I heard your—your wish? There was a voice. Really. Old. I think? It, uh,” He licks his lips, and looks down at where his hand is still cupping Eliot’s cheek. His thumb sweeps across Eliot’s cheekbone with no real intention. “It said my story wasn’t over.”

“Q.”

He doesn’t mean to—to sound so doubtful.

But this is _them._

They don’t get to be happy. Not together.

Quentin lets go of his wrist, reaches up and cups Eliot’s jaw. Eliot watches as his adams apple bobs. “I don’t know how,” He murmurs, gazing up at Quentin with all the intent and emotion Quentin’s probably got bottled up in him, “But we have another chance, El.”

“How can we be sure—“

Quentin rolls his eyes, though it holds no frustration, and he pulls his hand back, reaches up and grabs one of Eliot’s cupping his neck, and drags it down, down, down—barely any space at all, though it feels like his hand is traveling the length of the universe in the few inches—until it’s right over Quentin’s heart. “It’s beating.”

It is.

Fast. Quick, and unsteady beneath Eliot’s hand.

He stares at their hands there for a long moment, then lets his eyes slowly travel back up—traversing the universe back up to meet Quentin’s solid gaze—and lets a slow breath ease it’s way out of his chest. “You’re alive.” It’s a simple statement, isn’t it? Just two little words that are little more than an affirmation.

But it’s loaded.

 _Because_ it’s an affirmation.

Quentin nods.

And Eliot.

Unable to contain everything bubbling and stewing, leans down, and swoops in—his hand slides around, cups the back of Quentin’s neck, while the other stays firmly pressed up against Quentin’s heart. His lips press to Quentin’s, slow and firm and purposeful. It takes a moment, but his eyes fall closed, and he breathes into it—breathes in Quentin and their too chap lips, and Quentins soft hair, and his stupidly fast pitter-pattering heart beneath his palm. And Quentin breathes in too, quick and forceful, and he’s pushing in, too; his own hand on Eliot’s neck, pulling him in—almost like he’s searching for his own affirmation.

Eliot laughs into the kiss, something good and real and happy forcing its way up under all the pain.

Quentin pulls away first, looks up at him wide eyed and wonderful.

Eliot stares down at him, blinking.

He laughs again, leaning in to press his forehead to Quentins.

Quentin grins. “Hi,” He says. So simple.

How’s it so simple?

“I love you,” Eliot replies.

So _simple._

Quentin swallows and nods, his nose brushing up against Eliot’s. “That’s one way to say hello,” He closes his eyes, inhales again. Like he can’t quite believe he’s here either.

Nodding, Eliot slowly slides his hand out from beneath Quentin’s and moves to wrap his arm around Quentin’s waist. “I’m never saying goodbye,” He murmurs into Quentin’s skin as he ducks down to rest his forehead on Quentin’s shoulder. “ _Never._ ” He pauses, lifts his head up, and pulls his hand out from behind Quentin’s neck to point at him, “But if you ever fucking sacrifice yourself again, you—“

“I won’t,” Quentin interrupts. “I won’t. You—I _won’t._ ”

There’s a scoff to their left, and Eliot, blinks. “That’s a load of shit,” Margo mutters. Oh.

Eliot had completely forgotten they were there. He lifts his head to look over at them, Quentin following his gaze. He wants to yell at them for kind of ruining the moment, but they’re both misty eyed and, even though they’re trying to hide it, shaking. He inhales slowly, and pulls away just enough to hold an arm out for Julia. And Quentin does the same for Margo.

They only stare stubbornly for a moment, before they’re both moving in and collapsing into Quentin and Eliot.

 

—

 

Later, when they show up at the castle, Kady scoffs, with a, “ _Predictable.”_ She manages to stay strong for all of three seconds, before she’s roughly yanking Quentin from Eliot’s grasp and pulling him into a hug. “Dumb ass,” She mutters, before pushing him away and stalking off to another part of the castle.

Quentin watches after her dumbly, before turning to Eliot and Margo and Julia.

Julia shrugs. “Don’t look at us. She’s not _wrong._ ”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyyy happy ending! Who am I! well. I mean. It is the i love you collection soooo.
> 
> Come hang out! i'm sadlittenerdking on tumblr!
> 
> also whoops i had no idea how to end this one. Sorrry


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